Suffer, Endure, Persevere
by onewealthyhobo
Summary: It was a ragtag group from all walks of life, strangers clumped together by fear, but they clung to each other because they realized there would be no rescue. They had to help themselves and each other now. -rambles and one-shots-
1. What Bound Us Together

Walking Dead is my new obsession. Other stories not abandoned, by sat down and wrote this out because it would not leave me alone. Please enjoy.

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What Brought Us Together

Faith was a feeble thing within their tiny dysfunctional group, but miraculously it still existed. That did not mean it had survived the entire way. Faith had nearly died the day when the world went to shit, when corpses began to walk the earth and every lunatic with 'The End is Nigh' sign clutched in their dirty, coke encrusted fingers were proven too fucking right.

But despite the chaos, the panicked confusion and the swift and brutal descent into madness, there were still allusions of safety. The media assured them that the government was handling the situation, to simply stay inside, bar the doors and wait for further broadcasts. So they barred the doors and they waited.

At first the reports claimed it was angry protestors, mass riots, civil unrest. Then it was a disease, a vicious and aggressive virus, an epidemic escalating at a record breaking pace more devastating than Small Pox or the Bubonic Plague. Quarantine zones began popping up on the map, spreading out like pools of blood as each day went by. That was faith, bleeding out, the red covering whole neighborhoods until half the city was no longer safe. And then the blockades stopped accepting people, and the military, their protectors, began blindly shooting everything that moved, regardless of infection. There were no further broadcasts after that.

That's when they got their shit and ran.

Everyone else had the same idea. There must have been thousands of cars on the road out of the city, all heading towards the same direction. _Away. _As far and as fast as they could, but with every urging of _faster, farther, escape!_ the cars began to slow till they were no longer moving at all. Lined up, bumper to bumper, the max exodus halted for miles like a clogged artery, cardiac arrest imminent.

It wasn't until they heard the jet fighters screaming overhead on that deadlocked highway, and watched Atlanta burn in the distance that faith took its last, agonized breath, shriveled up and died.

That was when everything had ended, and a whole other world began.

Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was the right circumstances, or perhaps it was a product of clawing desperation for leadership that their particular group of people that just happened to be stranded on the same stretch of road banded together.

It was a ragtag group from all walks of life, strangers clumped together by fear, but they clung to each other because they realized there would be no rescue. They had to help themselves and each other now. Together they left that death trap of a highway and escaped into the woods.

Surprisingly, it was Merle and Daryl who suggested the abandoned quarry, since they were the only ones to have ever stepped in the forest before all of this insanity.

It took time, it was an uneasy grudging thing for some, but slowly they all learned to work with each other. They became something like a community, striving for normalcy in their fumbling and handicapped way. They had to build order from the ground up, like the first pioneers in the new world of the walking dead.

Shane, with his police badge and holstered guns, didn't so much volunteer for the title of leader as he was elected, since the only other option was Merle and no one wanted Merle in charge. But despite the ultimate living, breathing definition of a racist, inbred, hillbilly red-neck that Merle was, he at least knew how to survive, him and his quiet but equally intimidating brother Daryl. When the hastily grabbed can food began to run thin, it was the Dixon brothers who provided for the group. They had brought along the most guns after all.

Almost typically, the males became the protectors and providers, and the females took care of the rest, grudgingly reversing the women's rights movement out of necessity. Many things came from necessity, like establishing a 24 hour watch and maintaining a perimeter, setting curfews and performing head counts, counting bullets, rationing out food and supplies, and eventually, heading out for supply runs when things became low.

Glenn proved himself an integral part of the group when they came upon the question of who should go, volunteering himself for the role when no one spoke up. He was fast and quiet, and knew the city roads better than any of them. He provided the things so inconspicuous in the old world but was now vital in the new one. Funny how people took so many things for granted.

Medicine, pain killers, bandages, anti-bacterial ointments, vitamins, batteries, needles and thread, , bullets, kitchen knives, forks and spoons, socks and underwear. Who would think to bring an extra pair of underwear when the world ended?

After his first successful run, he became the group's go-to man, and his every return was celebrated like Christmas. He was the Korean Santa, giving out precious candy to the kids, chocolates and soap for the women, packs of smokes for Merle, and even a case of beer for the guys when he thought he could risk it.

There were still hiccups along the way, butting heads and flared tempers, disdainful obedience and mulish stubbornness. The horrors were still there, the sense of danger never receding, their many losses too fresh to even share with each other, but they functioned as best as they could in the only way they knew how.

But despite it all, as they survived and worked together, as the children began to play, and smiles began to return to their faces, faith sprouted out of the ashes, and built tender, tentative bonds between them.

So when sheriff Rick Grimes, long thought dead husband of Lori, father of Carl, best friend of Shane appeared with all the fuck ups and tragedies that came with him, they did not, could not reject him. His very existence was a miracle, beating all the unfair odds the new world had set against him, finding them when it should have been impossible, wandering around on blind faith and determination that he would be reunited with his family. It was like he was untouched, like he was dropped in this world out of a fairy tale, because he didn't see the everything fall apart like they had. He still had the lingering vestiges of humanity clinging to him, all the morality and sense of right and wrong clear in his head, the lines unblurred by horror. He was a phenomenon that reminded all of them of the good things of the old world.

But as if to over compensate for the sheriff's serendipity, things had gone to shit again in a whirlwind so fast that it was almost more devastating than the first time the world had ended.

Because the place they had built together was no longer safe, and there was a dawning realization that perhaps nowhere they could ever go would be safe. They lost people, good people, and it was like blunt fingers had torn into just stitched wounds, tearing it wide and bloody and gaping before packing the exposed muscle and ruined flesh with ground glass and salt.

But at least, this time, they could bury their dead.

Perhaps it was renewed fear, renewed ruin and loss, which made them listen to Rick when he fervently insisted on the CDC as their last chance. Of course they didn't believe him, he had regained his son and his wife, while they had lost more than he could imagine. But perhaps it was the glimmering tendril of faith, strengthened between them when everything else was exhausted, that made most of them consent.

True some did choose to leave and go their own way, but the rest stayed, clinging to each other because in the end that was all they had. That and Rick's unwavering hope, naïve as it may be.

They followed him despite it all, when they were forced to watch a man deteriorate, and say goodbye as they left him behind, when food ran out and the gas meter tapped the dangerously close to the bone white E, they followed him.

And when they stood at the closed doors of the CDC, geeks closing in as Rick screamed desolation at the camera, begging for salvation, faith nearly died then.

But like an answer to a prayer, it opened.

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As always, please tell me what you liked, what you don't like, and what I can impove.


	2. And I Feel Fine

Please forgive typos and mistakes, i started writing this at 3 in the morning and just finished it at 11 and am posting it without proofreading. I will fix mistakes later when I'm less sleep deprived.

* * *

No one could blame them if they drank a little more than they should have that night, it was a celebration, it was the absolutely _first_ time they ever had reason to celebrate since the end of civilization. It was the first time that there was no fear in anybody's eyes, no fear of being too loud, of being heard, no need to be cautious or for anyone to sit apart and keep watch for grey rotting flesh and dull glinting teeth in the dark.

For the first time they felt safe.

They were renewed, fed, _showered._ Glenn's dawning smile at the mention of _hot running water_ was shared among everyone that had heard those beautiful three words, his childish glee contagious. Even Daryl cracked a smile, crooked and awkward as it was. Carol had cried when she had stepped into the steaming spray, and so did Dale, though the old man would never admit it.

No matter how many dips into quarry's cold water, or how hard one scrubbed with soap, there was nothing like hot water that could melt the dirt away, sluicing off the stress and aches like magic, getting deep down into the muscle and straight to the bones, cooking the body deliciously inside and out.

So that night they celebrated, everyone smelling fresh, their bellies full, bodies relaxed and spirits so high they were soaring. None of them had ever heard each other laugh so hard. They opened up to each other then, recounting a funny story or anecdote, speaking of only happy things, of things that happened before the dead started pulling themselves out of the graves. Dale had many to share as did T-Dog and Glenn, while Andrea and Shane kept to themselves and stared into their glasses.

The ones with kids turned in first, taking the opportunity to tuck in their babies in actual beds for the first time in months. Shane stumbled off soon after, a bottle of wine in his hand and a dark look in his eyes.

Daryl heckled Glenn into doing shots with him, Andrea surprisingly joined in with sudden enthusiasm. Everyone pretended not to notice when T-Dog and Jacqi left the room together after making eyes at each other all night.

Dale decided to turn in after their third round of shots, leaving Daryl, Glenn, Andrea, and a bottle of fine whiskey between them.

After the first shot, Glenn bracingly began counting down in Korean before putting the glass to his lips, hissing out a burning breath after every gulp. Now on the third round, Daryl, surprise of the freaking century, began to count with him.

"_Hana, tul, set,_" gulp, slam down. Repeat.

By the fourth shot Glenn was done, his face red as a tomato, the blush making it all the way to his ears as he swayed in his seat, hiccupping now and then as he blearily watched Daryl and Andrea continue on.

"Light weight," Daryl smirked as he sloppily filled the glasses.

"Whatever man," Glenn slurred, glaring at the wasted drops of amber swirling on the table top, swimming around and around like little tadpoles. Omigod he was so fucking drunk. Even before everything went shit faced he never drank this much, too busy with college classes and the two jobs he had to work to pay for those college classes to mess around like that. Not every Korean could win a full scholarship, but whatever, it didn't matter now anyway.

"_Hana, tul, set,_" Daryl grunted. He was terrible at Korean.

Slowly Glenn listed to the left, gradually sinking underneath the table as Daryl and Andrea slammed down their sixth shot.

Then seventh.

Then eighth.

Then ninth

When Daryl poured the tenth shot, more whiskey made it onto the table then into his glass, but he was still sitting up straight, his hand holding the bottle steady but pouring very slowly, one corner of his lip turned up in a smug curl. On the other side of the table Andrea was slumped over, almost crumped in on herself, face sweaty and just as red as Glenn's.

She put her hand over her empty glass before Daryl could fill it, accidentally knocking it over. Daryl sloshed some onto her fingers before he could abort.

"M'dun," she half slurred, half burped.

Glenn grimaced, he didn't know how his old friends could brag about sleeping with drunk chicks. He did not believe drink made a girl more attractive, because he was balls to the wall drunk and he didn't think Andrea looked all that good. She should have stopped after the seventh shot, she was starting to look a little green or maybe that was his eyes going wonky on him.

Daryl just slammed back his shot, and then poured another one because he was a smug he was a badass like that.

Andrea slowly climbed out of her chair like the thing was going to buck out from under her if she startled it.

"Need help to your room?" Daryl asked, words not even slurred, but his southern accent so thick that it was syrupy, dripping off his tongue like molasses on sand paper.

"Nooooooo," Andrea said slowly, taking one step at a time, like each step needed to be strategized, measured, and charted before being implemented.

"You sure?" Glenn asked worriedly, and tried to get up out of his chair to go help her. His intention was to stand, but his body abandoned that plan in favor of listing to the side and thumping his cheek against Daryl's shoulder. Alarm burbled sluggishly in his chest, with quickly turned onto full on panic as he realized that _oh god oh god I'm leaning on Daryl I'M FUCKING LEANING ON SNAPS-GEEK'S-NECKS-LIKE-TWIGS DERYL! _With the concentrated effort of his entire being he tried to pull away as fast as was humanely possible. All he actually managed to do was vaguely flail his suddenly noodle like arms.

Slowly, like someone had put Daryl on slow motion, the scuffy red-neck with far too much fondness of sleeveless shirts, methodically lifted his hand, pressed his pointer and middle finger to Glenn's temple, and exerted just enough pressure to push Glenn back up to a sitting position. Then he gave a gentle push, and like an upside down pendulum, Glenn's center of gravity shifted the other way and he went careening off the other side, and promptly toppled to the floor.

Daryl laughed. It was the first time Glenn has ever heard him laugh, like ever. He didn't even know the man could laugh before this.

"Duuuuuuude!" Glenn whined.

"Come on Asia," Daryl said as he climbed off his chair like a man who _didn't_ drink ten shots of whiskey and two beers before that would.

He knew Daryl was strong, and that Glenn was a pretty slim guy, but it was ridiculous just how easy the red-neck plucked him off the floor. Glenn needed to seriously bulk up, because _not cool. _

When Glenn looked up, Andrea was gone. She moved really fast for someone drunk off her ass.

Daryl swung Glenn's arm over his shoulder and half propped up the floppy Korean against his side. The world swirled and shifted around Glenn, or maybe that was just his head bobbling around because he suddenly forgot how to use all of his neck muscles.

"M' on a fuckin' tilt a world," Glenn snorted and laughed, he always liked that ride.

Daryl chuckled, "Come on, you gotta help, use them tiny ass feet."

"M'tryin'" Glenn slurred, and stared down at his feet. They weren't that tiny. Okay maybe they were a little on the small side, but small feet did not equal small other things. And being Asian did not mean small other things either…..where was he going with this? Oh yeah, walking.

With much effort and a lot of help, Glenn managed to walk himself around the table and towards the hallway, or maybe that was just Daryl dragging him. It probably _was_ Daryl dragging him. That was kinda cool of him though. He had thought Daryl was a racist asshole like his brother in the beginning, cruel, merciless, red neck trash. Would rather shoot you in the knee caps and watch you crawl then help you. But Daryl never started shit like Merle did, never called Glenn a chink or pick fights just because he knew he could beat down the other person easy. He didn't mess with people or get into their heads just because he found it fun. Sure there were Chinaman jibes now and then, but he was just messing with Glenn, just playing around.

Glenn was glad that it was Daryl who stayed, and that Merle was the one who got chained to that roof, because no way Merle would have stayed with them. He wouldn't have tried to save them when everything went to hell. He would have punched out Rick, maybe even kill him, and appointed himself the new leader, or maybe just steal all their valuables and left them to die. Either way, they were lucky to have Daryl.

Thinking these blurry, foggy thoughts Glenn couldn't help but feel happy about things in general. So he began to hum, because he hasn't hummed in _forever_. It was weird to realize that. Music just stopped existing when people realized geeks were attracted to sound.

So he hummed some nonsensical notes until they started to form a song, and when he realized what song it was it was strangely and so horribly appropriate that he began to blare it out loud to the top of his lungs.

"IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FIIIIINE!"

Daryl laughed. Because yeah, it was that fucking perfect. And then Daryl sang with him. Glenn had no idea Daryl could sing.

"IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FIIIIIINE!" they sang together, Glenn wobbly and off-key while Daryl had perfect, if somewhat raspy pitch.

And then Daryl took in a deep breath, and sang the actual lyrics that no one ever bothered to learn.

"Six o'clock - TV hour.  
Don't get caught in foreign towers.  
Slash and burn, return, listen to yourself churn.  
Locking in uniforming, book burning, blood letting.  
Every motive escalate. Automotive incinerate.  
Light a candle, light a votive.  
Step down, step down.  
Watch your heel crush, crush. Uh oh,  
This means no fear - cavalier.  
Renegade, steer clear!  
A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies.  
Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives  
And I decline."

It was impressive, mind boggling, and really, really fucking weird that Daryl knew how to sing like that. He sang each word, quick and clear and concise with actual notes to all those lines.

Glenn actually stumbled, and Daryl stopped to make sure he didn't fall flat on his face, saving him from an embarrassing and painful broken nose.

"Dude, fucking DUDE!" Glenn gaped. "You know the fuckin' words. No one knows the fuckin' words. But YOU know the fuckin' words!"

Daryl laughed and continued dragging him down the hall. "Yeah I know the fucking words," he said as he opened a door and pulled Glenn inside.

"Dude you can fuckin' sing," Glenn said.

Daryl closed the door with his foot, and then sat Glenn down on the bed. Without support, the young man flopped onto his side, but his eyes stayed unwavering on Daryl.

"Yeah I can fuckin' sing," he said, and ran a hand through his short, choppy hair.

"Sing something else," Glenn demanded. He blamed that one on the alcohol swimming in his veins, because if he was sober he would never in a million years demand something from the cold, hard Daryl.

"What? No," Daryl said, and the smile that had been playing around his lips all night slipped away, his mouth turning back into its trade mark stern and serious frown.

Glenn should have stopped right there, and he meant to, but apparently his mouth didn't get the memo.

"Please," he pleaded, "I haven't heard music…..for so long."

There were many things he missed, but music had to be the biggest one of them. When the world went to shit your ipod was the last thing you thought about taking with, and even if you actually happened to stuff it in your pocket, it was a stupid idea to plug them in your ears when too many things were going on around you. Hearing, as everyone learned quickly enough, was pretty essential to survival.

And by the time you found a safe enough place to plug them in, the thing dies on you anyway, because now that the world has ended there's no way to charge it.

The world was silent now. No radios playing, no music videos, no blaring car stereo's passing by, no thumping night clubs, no neighbors with their jam turned up too high. It meant no dancing either, no singing, like an entire part of humanity was simply cut off, hacked away like a rotted limb, and declared forbidden.

It was a suicidal man who sang when there were geeks around, but sometimes the silence was deafening.

Apparently Glenn must have looked really pathetic, or maybe Daryl was drunker then he let on, because he shot Glenn a dirty _you better not fucking tell anyone about this_ look, and gave a gusty sigh.

The man sat down against the wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him as he tilted his head back. He looked up at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere but Glenn, and licked his dry lips.

"Summertime,  
And the livin' is easy  
Fish are jumpin'  
And the cotton is high

Oh, Your daddy's rich  
And your mamma's good lookin'  
So hush little baby  
Don't you cry

One of these mornings  
You're going to rise up singing  
Then you'll spread your wings  
And you'll take to the sky

But until that morning  
There's a'nothing can harm you  
With your daddy and mammy standing by,"

He sang, his chorded throat fluttering and Adam's apple throbbing with the achingly sweet but rough vibrato, deep and resonating and attractively scratchy. Daryl had the kind of singing voice meant for smoky back road bars. Not country western ten gallon Stetson hats kinda places, but just low lit and intimate, whiskey and smoke and dark, dark beers, where the place had enough grit to be authentic but not dirty enough to be seedy. It's where people with calloused hands, deep scars, and hard lives go to unwind and enjoy good stories and sad songs.

Glenn watched Daryl all throughout the song, and watched as the man's eyes slipped closed halfway through, as if admitting that yeah, this felt good to sing again, because it was obvious that he used to do it a lot, and deep down he missed it too.

When he opened his eyes they were a little shimmery when he met Glenn's gaze. He looked away quickly, and wiped at them, pretending they were stinging because he had a headache or something close to that. He gave an awkward cough to clear his throat.

Glenn didn't know that Daryl could tear up.

"That's really good," he murmured.

Daryl rubbed at his eyes some more.

"Where'd you learn to sing like that?" Glenn asked.

Daryl let out another cough and sniffed as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He dropped his hand to his knee and rolled his shoulders.

"Church," he grunted.

That just blew Glenn's mind. He didn't see the Dixon's as church going people. Unless it was those congregations set up in the woods with snakes and torches and the preacher screaming HALLELUJAH A'PRAISE'AH GEE-SUS'AH! as he smacked demons out of children.

Or maybe they did attend those respectable legit churches, with wooden pews and stained glass windows and choir boys dressed up in those virginal smocks.

And then Glenn thought of Daryl as a choir boy, and he snorted so hard he almost chocked on it.

Daryl's frown pulled hard on his face and he shifted uncomfortably, his feet moving restlessly as he sat up straighter. "Shut up man, it was my mom's idea." It was miracle he hadn't punched Glenn right in the face.

"You're mom?" he sniggered. "You must have looked so angelic. Was Merle a choir boy too? Which one of you did the priest touch first?" Oh he was really flirting with devil on this one, he was practically begging for a black eye.

"Shut the fuck up!" Daryl growled, and sprang up on his knees like he was going to lunge at Glenn.

Glenn should have been scared, he really should have been, and on the inside he really was, but there was something about this that was more funny than shit-your-pants scary, so instead of flinching and begging for mercy when Daryl grabbed him by his collar like he should have, he laughed.

He laughed so hard he clutched at his sides, curled almost in a fetal position as he gasped for breath.

And by some miracle from above, Daryl did not punch him. No, the red-neck took in a deep breath, and his frown cracked. He snorted, and almost against his will he started laughing too. Because really, Daryl, as a fucking choir boy. Oh. My. God.

But that didn't mean Daryl was going to retaliate. He bodily dragged Glenn off of the bed by his shirt, and the Asian man dropped like a sack of rice on the floor.

"I'm sorry!" Glenn said between his giggles and wheezes of pained breath. He landed on his side and turned away on his back, curled up in a feeble attempt to protect himself if Daryl tried to do something sinister, though Glenn wouldn't be able to defend himself against tickling fingers in this position.

"Shut up man!" Daryl exclaimed, and they laughed and laughed until they were both out of breath.

It wasn't until Glenn saw the crossbow tucked in the corner of the room that he realized that this was Daryl's room.

Achingly he sat up, finally gaining some control of his floppy limbs though they still felt like noodles. He propped himself up against the side of the bed as he regained his breath, and ran a hand through his hair. Belatedly he noticed his cap was missing.

Daryl propped himself against the wall again, and they sat facing each side by side, both smiling like idiots.

"So," Glenn said after they quieted down, "Choir boy," he concluded.

"Fuck you," Daryl said with a smirk.

In the days after this neither of them knew why it happened. It might have been the whiskey, it might have been the light natural high of laughter after going so long without it, or maybe it was a deep secret desire just to share something of himself, anything of him before all the shit hit the fan, but for the first ever Daryl Dixon opened up to someone that wasn't blood.

"My mom, she loved to sing," Daryl said as he scratched at his scalp, making his hair tuft up in endearingly haphazard angles. "She was a music teacher, y'know, played the piano and taught munchkins to sing the national anthem and all that."

Glenn listened with a small, awed smile. He didn't know Daryl could ever look that soft and open.

Apparently he took the smile as encouragement, because he continued on. "She could have been a real singer y'know, big stage, spot light and all that shit. She was that good. But she married my dad instead, and had me and Merle."

Daryl coughed and rubbed at his pant leg, his smile waning as he looked at the carpet. "My dad was a real piece of work, in and out of jail, drugs and shit. No one knew what mom was doing with a guy like him, but she was an angel. A real come down from heaven angel. She was saving him, making him into an honest man, and she woulda done it too, she was a force of nature like that. She woulda made him into something decent and good if the…if it hadn't…"

Daryl stopped suddenly and swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he licked his lips. His eyes flicked to Glenn, and then flicked away just as quickly. He started again, but quieter, like he couldn't stop now that he started.

He tapped the side of his neck. "She got throat cancer," he murmured, "Aggressive, the doctors said. She had to stop singing to get treated, couldn't teach anymore. There were times where they thought they got it all, that she beat it, but then it come back in a new place. It was…it was just…" he coughed to cover up the break in his voice.

Glenn couldn't blame him. He only saw a cancer patient once in his life. His mom's friend had breast cancer, and mom dragged him along to visit her in the hospital. Glenn was twelve back then, but it terrified him. He remembered what she looked like before the chemo, she had been beautiful and full of laughter. He couldn't match up the woman from before to the sunken, sickly bald creature on the bed, skin paper thin stretched around a brittle skeleton, like the life was sucked right out of her.

He couldn't imagine actually watching her deteriorate, like Daryl must have done.

It was all sorts of fucked up.

Daryl's eyes were shimmering again, and he cleared his throat and looked to the ceiling. "I sang to her every day that I could, she told me she could always sleep better after I sang to her. Her last…" Daryl sniffed and wiped at his nose, but no tears fell. "Her last couple of months she couldn't talk anymore, they took out too much in her last operation. When she died I didn't even cry. She was an angel y'know, she just went home."

He said the last part to the ceiling, looking up as he tried valiantly to keep the tears back, or maybe he was looking up at her.

Glenn didn't know what to say to that. He was shown a piece of Daryl that even soberly he could barely process.

"How old were you?" Glenn asked quietly.

"Nine," Daryl answered, and scrubbed his hand over his face and let out a long, billowing sigh.

Watching your mother waste away at nine years old. Glenn couldn't even fathom it. Nothing bad have ever happened to his family, not until the world went to shit, but everyone lost someone when that happened. Daryl had to live on without her for years and years before this shit hit the fan, this explained a little why Merle was so fucked up. Not all of it, but a little.

Glenn didn't know what to do. An awkward hug was usually the least someone could give, but Daryl really wasn't the hugging type, and Glenn had pushed his luck too much already tonight.

So, tentatively he brushed his ankle against Daryl's, a hesitant touch but it was contact of some sort. There was healing in touch, his mother once told him, though she doubted this was what she was talking about.

Daryl looked up at Glenn. He didn't pull his foot away.

"That sucks," Glenn offered lamely.

"Yeah," Daryl agreed.


End file.
